


Locked Game

by KRyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:18:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4160163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn/pseuds/KRyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finch and Reese work to help their new Number, a young man whose father has incurred a massive gambling debt, and whose restaurant is up for grabs if the debt isn't settled. Desperate, their Number proposes a 'winner takes all' pool match. Unfortunately, the man he's challenged isn't known for his sense of fair play. </p><p>Takes place shortly after the episode 'Guilty' in Season 4.</p><p>Note: Chapter one is essentially a case fic in its entirety. Chapter two is a Rinch-centric continuation, and Explicit for an M/M established relationship. </p><p> </p><p>  <em>Harold ignored his gasped protest. "There are a significant number of terms relating to balls, as I'm sure you can appreciate." At John's barely stifled groan, Harold glanced up, expression innocent. "You did express an interest in ball handing, did you not?"</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of fun on the subject of manual dexterity. 
> 
> Takes place shortly after the episode 'Guilty' in Season 4.
> 
> Chapter one is essentially a case fic in its entirety. Chapter two is a Rinch-centric continuation, and Explicit for an M/M established relationship.

*****************************  
_Locked Game :_

_In billiards or pool, a game that basically cannot be lost based on disparity of skill levels;  
_

_"This game is a lock for him."  
_

 

*****************************

Reese slid his car to the curb, cursing the stalled delivery truck that had delayed him just long enough to let their newest Number get a few minutes ahead of him. 

He tapped his earpiece as he studied the bar his quarry had slipped into. "Hope you've got eyes inside Walsh's place, Finch. Tobin beat me here."

Harold's frustrated sigh whispered across the line. _"Unfortunately, the security system Mr. Walsh installed in his establishment isn't networked to an outside vendor. To access it, I'd have to be within 300 feet. I have partial access to exterior cameras only."_

John glanced through his windshield at the closest CCTV camera mounted at the intersection a block away. "Guess I'll have to check out the decor for myself."

_"I assume it's safe to conclude you were unable to dissuade Mr. Tobin from attempting to confront Mr. Walsh over his father's gambling debts."_

Reese slid out from behind the wheel and closed the car door with a quiet 'snick'. "I managed to _dissuade_ the 45 millimeter pistol he bought out of his hands, but he was resistant to your alternative financing plans."

_"A year ago I would have taken the debt and arranged for a silent partnership until it was paid off, but as you're aware, our financial situation has changed. The alternative we offered was the best suggestion available. It was no simple matter to find a source to cover a half million dollars in debt, especially when the man who incurred that debt has a distressing tendency to gamble away any money he makes when he's not drinking himself into a stupor."_

John grimly reviewed their Number's situation as he strode across the street. Jeremy Tobin, age 23, was a bright kid with a good head on his shoulders. He was a few months away from earning a degree in Business, having put himself through school working long hours and cautiously exercising a surprising talent with a cue stick. 

His father had started out that way, becoming the proud owner of what was the only family-owned restaurant on New York's popular east side with a pool table in the waiting area, before he hit his late 30's. The death of his wife in a fatal car accident four years prior had sent the man into a tailspin. He had started drowning himself in a bottle at about the same time Reese had started pouring them down the sink. Several stints in rehab, arranged and paid for by his son, hadn't stuck. Drinking had led to gambling, and load of debt that was now due. 

Reese had been following Jeremy Tobin for two days, watching the young man skip classes in order to play countless games of pool, and using the money he'd won from the matches to buy up his father's gambling markers. He'd made surprisingly good progress, but had come up against a major complication when the last marker totaling $500,000 was sold out from under him. The current holder of the debt wasn't interested in a delayed payment plan. He wanted his money, or Jeremy's father's restaurant.

They'd intervened when John observed their desperate Number buying a gun from a backroom dealer. When Reese dumped him on the couch in the safe house, he had quickly learned that in addition to being a smart kid, Tobin had a smart mouth. He was also incredibly proud and determined to handle the family's troubles on his own. That stance had earned John's respect. It was also probably the reason Reese had let down his guard long enough for the young man to head straight into danger.

"The kid's a pain in the ass, but I like him, Finch," Reese admitted, climbing the short flight of steps to the bar's front door. "There's got to be some way to get him and his father out of this mess."

_"If we were dealing with someone other than Cavan Walsh, I'd feel more optimistic. Mr. Walsh hasn't earned his reputation, or his fortune, by playing by the rules. He styles himself a 'gentleman', but from what I've been able to learn, con man would be more accurate. He's well connected, and he's arrogant. The name of his bar? Fein Me Seo? That's Gaelic for 'I Own This'."_

"Sounds like someone needs to teach him a lesson."

_"John--"_

"Don't worry so much, Finch. You know I'm always careful," Reese murmured, pushing open the door. 

_"Your definition of 'careful' and mine vary greatly, Mr. Reese."_

John declined to respond, his attention focused on the dimly lit space he'd entered. The layout of the relatively narrow room just off the entryway was pretty standard. A massive wooden bar complete with copper foot rail ran the length of the left wall, with various types and sizes of glassware, and scores of liquor bottles filling the mirrored shelves behind it. There were no barstools, but heavy wooden tables and chairs were crammed into the rest of the space, leaving only a narrow path for servers to traverse. 

There was a set of double doors at the far end, with a brute of a man slouched in a chair placed in front of one of them. Other than the bartender, another sterling example of a wall of muscle, the place was deserted. 

John wandered over to the bar and leaned against it, the position giving him the opportunity to scan the backbar for weapons. None in sight, but then again, they wouldn't be. "Slow night?" he asked pleasantly.

The bartender shrugged and wiped down the surface in front of Reese with a rag that looked like it had been used to clean the floor. "What'll you have?" the man growled, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Looking for a friend who came in here a few minutes ago." 

The bartender dropped his rag, but John caught his wrist and twisted it sharply. Before the man could finish the curse that exploded from his lips, the serrated blade of the knife Reese had twitched to his hand pinned the thug's shirtsleeve to the wooden surface, and the muzzle of John's Sig-Sauer was pointed at the man guarding the rear doors. 

"I don't want any trouble, boys," Reese rasped. "Like I said, I'm just looking for a friend."

"You fucker," the bartender hissed. "I'm gonna--"

The door opening at the end of the room, and a harshly barked, "Sean!" curtailed his threat. Reese had seen a photo of Walsh, but the picture hadn't done justice to the man striding through the doorway. 

Carrying at least 350 pounds on a six foot plus-something frame, the big Irishman towered over the man stationed at the rear door, and made Tobin, who trailed in his wake, look like a schoolboy. 

Walsh ground to a halt just out of arm's reach, seemingly unfazed by the weapon trained on him. "You have business with me?" he demanded.

John nodded toward Jeremy. "With him." With a quick side glance at Sean-the-bartender to confirm he wasn't going to try something foolish and escalate the situation, Reese lowered his pistol and secured it in its holster at his waist. "You know how kids are these days. Always in and out of trouble."

Tobin shot John a glare Finch would have been proud of, but Walsh laughed, a booming burst of sound that would have rattled the rafters if the bar had them. Reese offered a shark-sharp smile and took the opportunity to size up the opposition. 

As Harold had noted, Walsh cultivated a 'gentlemanly' appearance. For a big man, he wore a suit well. Bespoke maybe, custom tailored certainly, but a little flashy, even cheap in comparison to the ones Finch had worn before he'd had to scale down to fit his role as an underpaid professor. 

Walsh's short wavy hair was liberally peppered with gray, but still showed enough red to let him legitimately trace his heritage back to the Irish county he'd taken his first name from. John pegged him at late 60s, early 70s, maybe 40 percent muscle, 60 percent flab. High blood pressure might have accounted for his florid complexion. There was nothing soft about the emerald green eyes, however. Or the sharp, cunning intelligence behind them.

Not a man to trust with a weapon at your back, or trust period, if you had something he wanted.

Walsh laid a trunk-thick arm over Tobin's shoulders in a false show of camaraderie. "There's none to concern you here, then." The big man's voice carried only a hint of Irish brogue. Reese suspected he could lay it on much thicker if it worked to his advantage. "Young Jeremy and I were just concluding a business arrangement."

"Legal, or illegal?" John asked. 

Walsh laughed again. "A simple wager between friends."

Reese's jaw clenched. Whatever the wager was, it was unlikely the conditions would favor their Number. 

Tobin shrugged out from under Walsh's arm and turned to face him. "You accept, then?"

"Aye. Best of five, winner take all. Open game. Match to be held here, tomorrow night. Ten o'clock sharp." Walsh jerked his head toward John. "Feel free to bring your minder."

Reese saw Tobin's fist clench and grabbed him before the young man could take a swing. With the sound of the big Irishman's laughter ringing in his ears, John dragged the young man out of the bar and across the street to his car. Tobin pulled out of his grasp, but Reese flattened him against the passenger side of the sedan. 

"It's done. You can't stop it," Tobin snarled. 

"What's done?"

"I challenged him to a match."

Harold's soft, _"Oh my,"_ rolled across the comm accompanied by the clatter of keys.

"You bet your future on a pool game?" Reese couldn't believe it.

"I win, and he signs over the marker and my father keeps his restaurant." Tobin deflated in front of John's eyes. "It was the only way," the young man murmured. "If my father loses the restaurant, I'll lose him to suicide."

 _"He's probably correct, Mr. Reese,"_ Harold's voice held a quiet resignation.

"Yeah." Reese stepped back and studied their Number. "Can you beat him?"

"I've seen Walsh play," Tobin answered. "He's good. Better than good." He drew in a deep breath, pulling himself together. When he spoke again, his voice was steady. Determined. "But he doesn't have as much riding on the outcome as I do. That'll give me the edge."

Reese hoped so, because there was little else they could do other than see this through. He ushered Tobin into his car. "I'll give you a lift home."

 _"I'll see what else I can pull up on Mr. Walsh,"_ Harold murmured. _"Perhaps one of the skeletons in his closet will offer additional options."_

"Find something, Harold," John muttered as he walked around to the driver's side. "I don't want to see what happens if this kid loses."

**********************

Reese pulled a bowl of soup out of the microwave and placed it on the kitchen table. He'd returned to Detective Riley's apartment instead of heading to the subway after dropping off their Number. Sleep had been a missing luxury over the past forty-eight hours, and he needed to be on top of his game for the next evening. He dropped into a chair and absently stirred a spoon through the steaming liquid. 

"I don't see how confirmation that Walsh is a cheat and a liar does us any good, Finch," he groused to the voice in his ear. 

_"It allows us to plan our strategy accordingly. We cannot afford to underestimate him. Mr. Walsh has quite the history of running both the short- and long-con. And he's clever enough that he's never been brought up on charges. He's made a fortune on gem scams, blackmail, and several Ponzi schemes."_

"That's how he was in a position to snatch up Tobin senior's marker."

_"Yes. And from a purely business standpoint, it was a wise investment. The City has plans to revitalize the neighborhood where Tobin's restaurant is located. Once that happens, the value of the business would likely increase substantially. If Mr. Walsh takes ownership of it as a result of winning this match, his $500,000 'downpayment' would be returned to him four-fold."_

"And Jeremy's in no position to get Walsh off his back through legal means."

_"Not without incurring further complications for his father."_

"Any chance one of Walsh's old marks might be interested in helping us out with a little sting before the match? If we could take him out of the picture...."

_"Unfortunately, I've been unable to locate anyone who might be interested in that type of confrontation. None seem eager to admit they fell for his schemes. Mr. Walsh seems to have chosen his previous victims quite well. And they are numerous."_

John frowned down at his soup. "Guess there really is a sucker born every minute."

 _"'He who seeks to deceive will always find someone who will allow himself to be deceived.'”_

Reese grinned. "Should I be worried you're quoting Machiavelli, Finch?"

_"Should I be worried you **knew** it was Machiavelli, Mr. Reese? Deception is clearly something Mr. Walsh is very good at. Oddly enough, the one area of his life that seems least tainted by that orientation, is his pool play. As Mr. Tobin suggested, from all indications he is a skilled player."_

"So he doesn't have to cheat." 

_"No. He has won several legitimate high-level matches. He's not a very gracious winner, however, which hasn't endeared him to the regulars in the sport. Apparently he's quite the braggart."_

"Add bully to the description and that fits with the man I met."

 _"Is that how you'd categorize him, John?"_ Harold asked curiously. _"As a bully?"_

Reese considered the question. "He's a big guy, Finch. Like a mountain, big. In my experience, men that size, they grew up either extremely conscious of how that kind of bulk can scare people and did what they could to downplay that reaction, or they took advantage of the intimidation factor it provided. Walsh is the second kind. The type who likes being 'The Man' and ordering people around."

_"Interesting. Bullies tend to need to surround themselves with underlings so they don't have to do the dirty work themselves. But there's always a power balance to maintain. They can't afford to look weak. Respect, even though it's often based on fear is incredibly important to them. A loss of reputation, a loss to a less powerful or skilled adversary, and the bully suddenly finds himself standing alone. They'll often find a way out of a situation that has a questionable outcome just to avoid that possibility."_

"Walsh is confident he's going to win, Finch. I don't see him backing down."

" _Given the stakes of the wager, you're undoubtedly correct. He won't leave anything to chance...or skill. Which means we can be assured that he will try to rig the game in some way."_

"The game's being held on his turf. That gives him opportunity."

_"A neutral site would have been preferable, as would a specific set of pre-agreed-upon rules."_

"What's an open game?"

_"Exactly what it sounds like. Outside of not changing the type of game, such as shifting mid-stream to 9-ball from 8-ball, anything goes. Each player can challenge the other to called shots, even designate a required number of cushions that must be hit by either the cue ball or the object ball."_

"That doesn't sound like it gives either player an advantage."

_"True, but it introduces more unexpected variables, although..."_

Reese tensed. When Harold faded off like that it typically preceded an 'aha' moment and generated a course of direction that raised John's blood pressure.

"Finch?"

_"Just a thought. Something I'll have to explore further."_

"Harold." 

Finch was either oblivious to the implied threat in John's voice, or simply chose to ignore it. 

_"We need to focus on how the game might be physically rigged,"_ his partner continued smoothly. _"It won't be something obvious."_

With a resigned sigh, John set the spoon down and shoved the soup bowl aside, his appetite having disappeared in the face of Harold's ability to side-step a direct question.

"I doubt Walsh is going to let us in there to check things out before the match."

_"But you do have an invitation, crude as it was, to be on-site. I'll be able to access his security system through your phone. That will allow me to tap into any surveillance he has in place. If you and Mr. Tobin arrive a little early, it will give you time to walk the room. If you have the chance, roll a ball across the table, and watch the path it travels. If either the ball or the table has been tampered with, you'll see it in the action of the ball."_

"That's a lot of 'if's', Finch. And how do you know so much about the game anyway? More youthful indiscretions?"

 _"Pool is essentially math and physics, Mr. Reese. I do have some familiarity with the real world application of those subjects."_ Harold's voice took on a softer edge. _"Based on your descriptions of Mr. Tobin's games over the last two days, and what I've been able to unearth in regard to Mr. Walsh's prior encounters, the two seem well matched as far as skill level as concerned. Jeremy **does** have a chance to win." ___

"I just hate seeing someone as slimy as Walsh with a chance to come out on top."

_"He is a rather...distasteful individual."_

__Despite the seriousness of the situation, Reese had to smile at Harold's observation._ _

_"You should eat your soup and get some rest, John."_

__Reese's smile broadened to a grin. He picked up the bowl and downed half of the tepid contents in a few gulps. "I'd sleep better if you were here," he murmured._ _

_"As would I."_

__John warmed at the intimate wistfulness in his partner's voice. He rose and carried the bowl to the sink, dumping the remainder and rinsing it before setting it aside. "Go home, Harold."_ _

_"Bear and I will depart shortly."_

__Barking in the background suggested the Malinois approved of that plan. Reese shook his head, well aware the 'shortly' could mean one hour, or three. "Good night, Harold."_ _

_"Sleep well, John."_

__He headed to his bedroom, accompanied by the soothing sound of Harold working his magic on the keyboard._ _

__

__**************_ _

__Reese leaned against a tall table, fingers idly tapping the bottle of beer he had no intention of drinking as Tobin lined up for his first shot, having won the coin toss for the first game. Despite the young man's obvious nerves, the break was a good one, scattering balls around the table, bouncing off cushions, and dropping the blue and white striped 10 ball into a pocket._ _

__As Tobin moved around the table for his next shot, John's gaze swept the back room of the bar, tagging the position of Walsh and his entourage. Dressed in a three-piece suit complete with pocket square, Walsh stood a few feet away from the match table, cue stick cradled in his arms like a scepter. Five burly men formed an outer ring around the table, with a sixth stationed by the doors that led out to the front of the bar._ _

__Jeremy took his second shot, sinking the orange striped 13 ball with ease. So far, there was no sign of foul play._ _

__Harold's plan to have Reese scope out the pool table for the match had been stymied by the presence of four of Walsh's men ranged around it. They had eyed John suspiciously when he'd done a casual stroll around the perimeter they'd established. Reese had the height to match all of them, but they easily out-massed him. Smelling strongly of the docks, two were carrying openly and the familiar bulges under the arms of lightweight jackets indicated a significant amount of hidden firepower on the others._ _

__Tobin's lips were pressed in a grim line after his third shot, although the purple striped 12 landed in the pocket as planned. It was his fourth shot that suggested something was hinky. The burgundy striped 15 ball thudded home, but the cue ball came to rest hovering at the lip of a side pocket. Reese blinked in surprise when the ball, which had seemed stationary, tipped to the side and disappeared into the hole._ _

Harold's caution-drenched voice was immediately in his ear. _"Mr. Reese..."_

__John hummed an acknowledgement, and studied Walsh's reaction. His expression revealed nothing as he lined up for his first shot. The Irishman sunk all of the sold colored balls in a display of skill that impressed even Reese who was watching closely for any additional odd ball movements. It wasn't until the 8 ball wobbled in its descent into the pocket ending the game in Walsh's favor that Finch spoke again._ _

_"The table's been rigged. There's a descending slant to the side of 1 to 2 percent."_

__Tobin came over to the table where John was positioned, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from his face. Reese quietly passed on Harold's observation. Jeremy's expression swiftly changed from worried to determined._ _

__Walsh broke for the second game and managed to sink four striped balls before his fifth shot failed and right of play shifted to Tobin. The younger man proceeded to clear the table of the solid balls and pocketed the black 8 to take the game._ _

_"Very nice,"_ Finch observed. _"He's successfully compensating for the slant."_

__Game three also went to Tobin, but Walsh made a comeback, taking game four. Whomever won the final game would win the match. Walsh would have the advantage, having earned the right to the first shot._ _

__"I believe a short intermission is in order," Walsh announced. "Somebody get the Kid a drink."_ _

__To his credit, Tobin was holding up under the pressure well. "Just water," he responded to the offer. He flashed John a tight smile as he joined him._ _

__One of Walsh's men approached with a glass filled with a clear liquid and ice. Jeremy reached for it before Reese could intercede. Treachery struck fast, the thug wrapping a meaty hand around Tobin's, shattering the glass and driving the shards into the younger man's palm with a hard squeeze._ _

__John shoved Walsh's man away with a push that sent him sprawling on the floor._ _

__"Here now, what's this?"_ _

__The Irishman's loud voice boomed from the other side of the room, colored with surprise that John would have bought as legitimate if he didn't know better. Reese turned to Tobin, who stood stock still, mouth gaping open in horror at the blood pooling in the palm of his shooting hand._ _

__With a snarl, John grabbed the towel off the table and wrapped it tightly around the younger man's hand. Jeremy's stricken gaze rose to meet his. There was no way Tobin could continue the match._ _

__"Well now, that's unfortunate."_ _

__Reese spun to face the Irishman who was sauntering toward them, his hand automatically going for his pistol. He froze in mid-reach, confronted with the sight of five drawn weapons pointed at him. John dropped his hand to his side._ _

__"Unfortunate," he snarled back sarcastically._ _

__"Aye." Walsh nodded toward the man who had done the damage. "Jamie's never learned a light touch." His glittering gaze settled on Tobin. "Can you continue?" he asked with false concern._ _

__Tobin's fingers flexed weakly under their blood-spotted wrapping._ _

__"It would appear not," Walsh commented. "There's nothing for it, than to declare the last game a forfeit then."_ _

__"I don't believe that's completely accurate."_ _

__Reese's head snapped up._ _

__Finch stood inside the doorway, looking pitifully small in comparison to the massive long-shoreman watching the door. Dressed in his professorial-three-piece-suit-bespectacled glory, hands primly folded over the head of a cane planted in front of him, he looked completely out of his element and as harmless as a flea._ _

__The weapons Walsh's men had turned to point at him were another story._ _

__John's fingers itched to pull his Sig, but he kept still. Any move he made might spook someone into firing._ _

__"Private party," one of Walsh's men growled at Finch._ _

__"I'm aware," Harold responded calmly. "I'm an acquaintance of Mr. Tobin's."_ _

__Walsh's head swiveled toward Jeremy. "That true, Kid?"_ _

__The young man clutched the blood-spotted towel wrapped around his hand and flicked a glance toward Reese. John didn't know why Harold had chosen this moment to make an appearance, but Finch seldom did anything without a plan. Reese gave Tobin a terse nod._ _

__"Yeah, I know him," Tobin acknowledged._ _

__Finch's gaze slid to the weapon in the hands of the man closest to him, then he stared meaningfully at Walsh._ _

__"Put 'em away, lads," the big man ordered._ _

__Harold crossed the floor, cane thumping dully on the wood surface, his limp more pronounced than John had seen in some time. Finch stopped a few feet away from where they were gathered. Pale blue eyes slid over Reese and Tobin before raising to meet the big Irishman's._ _

__"If you came to catch the action, _Professor,_ " Walsh's sneer made a mockery of the title, "you're too late. Kid can't play, so he's going to have to forfeit."_ _

__"It was my understanding you agreed on an 'open' game," Finch countered._ _

__Walsh's eyes narrowed. "Aye, what of it?"_ _

__Harold shifted his weight slightly, leaning more heavily on his cane. "I'm certain you'll agree that Mr. Tobin's unfortunate circumstance shouldn't stand in the way of concluding the match as intended. It would be a shame to have any questions floating about as to the... legitimacy of your win."_ _

__Reese watched Walsh stiffen and straighten to his full height. His florid complexion darkened slightly. It was a dangerous game to play with a volatile opponent, but Finch's politely phrased challenge had clearly scored a direct hit._ _

__"If Mr. Tobin agrees, perhaps someone could be seconded to play in his stead," Harold suggested._ _

__John suddenly found himself the object of intense scrutiny, the obvious assumption that since Reese had been at Tobin's side the whole time, he would be the one to step in. Jeremy turned toward him, uncertainty and hope warring in his eyes. John hated to kill the younger man's hopes, but while he had played enough pool to hold his own in the average bar challenge, he knew he was no match for someone of Walsh's skill. He started to shake his head, when Finch unexpectedly stepped into the breach once more._ _

__"I'd be happy to volunteer."_ _

__Scattered snorts and outright laughter erupted from Walsh's men._ _

__"Do it, Boss," one of them called out. "The guy's gotta be a banger."_ _

__That sounded like an insult. John glanced at Finch, but his partner's polite, studied expression didn't change. Harold stood patiently, his gaze locked on Walsh._ _

__The big Irishman was as difficult to read as Finch. Only the shift of the man's green eyes as they swept the room and the slight frown that creased his brow gave any hint to his mindset. Reese found himself holding his breath as Walsh's heavy gaze settled on Harold, hoping his partner's read of the man was accurate._ _

__Walsh's body language changed abruptly, the tension flowing out of him. With a shrug of broad shoulders and a grating laugh, he barked, "Why not?" He looked at Tobin. "You know what's on the line, Kid. You agree?"_ _

__The young man studied Harold for several moments, obviously desperate, and even more obviously unimpressed with Finch as a potential savior._ _

__Reese's mind was racing. There was always more to his partner than met the eye, and what was obscured was often deviously surprising. This was the man who casually quoted Machiavelli, after all. When Tobin glanced his way questioningly, John nodded._ _

__The younger man's shoulders slumped as he looked down at his injured hand. "Yeah," he finally murmured. "I agree."_ _

__Walsh clapped his hands together, then swept one long arm out toward the pool table they'd been using. "Kid lost the last game, so I'll break. That'll give you plenty of time to pick out a stick." The Irishman gestured to one of his men. "Rack 'em."_ _

__"One moment," Harold interrupted. "I believe I have the option to pick the table."_ _

__The jovial mutterings of Walsh's men ceased, as did the exchange of cash being enthusiastically wagered._ _

__John tensed as the Irishman's eyes narrowed dangerously. The big man's gaze shifted quickly to the intent stares of his men. From the expressions on their faces, it was clear they knew, or at least suspected that the table was rigged, and they were waiting to see how their boss would handle the situation. Walsh's ego and inflated pride were apparently still running the show. Unwilling to lose face, he nodded, conceding the point._ _

__Harold walked around the table Walsh and Tobin had been using, then angled off toward a different one. It was an older pool table, the green fabric covering the bed stained and marked with pale lines at odd angles, where inexperienced players had scraped the surface with the tip of a poorly stroked cue. Finch didn't appear to be put off by the evidence of wear and tear. He rapped his knuckles on the bed, then reached for the white cue ball. With a flick of his wrist, he rolled it down the length of the table, studying it's movement as intently as he watched his monitors._ _

__"This one will suffice," he announced._ _

__Amidst the scuff of shoes, and the scrape of stools and chairs being relocated by Walsh's entourage, Harold limped over to a small cocktail table and slipped out of his suit coat jacket, laying it on the table top. Reese and Tobin joined him, John noting their new position in relation to the exits he'd already pinpointed, trying to plan a strategy for escape if everything went 'south'._ _

__John wanted to ask his partner what he was up to, but their young Number already looked nervous enough, so he settled for a sending a grim glare Harold's way. Finch twitched a faint sideways grimace, but that was his only response. He proceeded to calmly remove his cufflinks and precisely fold up the sleeves of his shirt._ _

__Jeremy stepped forward, offering his cue stick. Harold took it, held it parallel to the floor for a moment, resting on his open palm, then handed it back to the younger man._ _

__"Nicely balanced," Harold acknowledged. "However, I believe in this instance I'll use my own."_ _

__John's eyebrow twitched upward a fraction. Finch hadn't come in carrying anything except--_ _

__Harold picked up the cane he'd left resting against a chair, and approached the pool table he had selected. He unscrewed the ornate knob on the top of the cane and set it on the rail. With a deft shake, a length of polished wood slithered out of the cane's hollow body. Finch casually screwed the two pieces together._ _

__Reese struggled to contain a grin. Oh, the man was cunning. And obviously, not a rank amateur, given the custom stick. A low rumble of muttered surprise coasted around the room. Walsh didn't say a word, but his eyes glittered like ice._ _

__Finch appeared oblivious to the consternation he was causing. He plucked the cane's knob off the rail and positioned it at the end of the cue. A few deft twists and he set it aside, blowing gently on the freshly chalked tip._ _

__Harold rested the butt of his cue on the floor, fingers wrapped lightly around the slender upper portion and looked at Walsh. "Your break, I believe," he said pleasantly._ _

__The Irishman hid his anger well, strolling with casual nonchalance to the foot of the table. The man who had set up the balls, and who would also act as referee, lifted the triangular rack. With far more posturing than necessary, Walsh draped his tall form over the end rail and positioned his cue. He turned his head slightly to send a smirk Harold's way, then focused on the table. His stroke was smooth and strong, the cue ball sailing toward the racked balls and impacting the apex ball with an audible 'crack', and with enough force to scatter the rest around the table._ _

__But not a single ball dropped into a pocket._ _

__There was dead silence as Walsh straightened. His expression was carefully bland, but Reese was good at reading people. The Irishman was pissed. He had expected a different outcome._ _

__And abruptly, John understood why Finch had chosen a different table. A level one. Harold knew about the minor slant to the original pool table and could have compensated, just as Tobin had done. Walsh in his arrogance hadn't made the adjustment to his point of contact with the cue ball, too used to the behavior of the ball on the rigged table._ _

__Still, the error didn't seem costly. From John's perspective, it didn't look like there was a playable ball angle on the table for Finch to take advantage of. He glanced at his partner, who was calmly eying the referee._ _

__"Your ruling?" Harold asked._ _

__The man stared at the table, then up at his boss, sweat beading his forehead. "Only three balls hit the cushions, and nothing dropped." He swallowed hard. "Illegal break."_ _

__Walsh's expression turned murderous for a split second, before smoothing out to a false polite acceptance. "Your call," he said to Harold._ _

__Finch studied the table for a few moments, then nodded. "I'll play it as it lies. Ball-in-hand," he announced quietly to the referee before plucking the white cue ball from the table and carrying it around to the opposite end. Walsh hadn't yet moved, and Finch simply stared at him until he grudgingly gave way. Harold took bare seconds to scan the table again from the new perspective and then set the cue ball down about a foot from the bottom rail._ _

__He started to lean over the rail, then abruptly straightened and pulled off his glasses. Knowing Finch's vision was poor at best without them, John frowned, wondering what the hell his partner was playing at--until Harold extracted a different pair of glasses from his pants pocket and slipped them on._ _

__The lenses on the new pair were taller, extending more than an inch above the nose piece. There was no frame structure across the top, only a narrow metal piece across the bottom connected to the earpieces. Finch twitched them once to settle them in place. "My apologies for the delay," he offered, and took his shooting position once more._ _

__Reese understood the advantage the glasses offered immediately. The tall lenses were set unusually high so that when the wearer's head was lowered over the cue stick for aiming, the shooter could still look through the lenses, instead of having to lift his head up and down to focus. For Harold, with limited range of motion in his neck due to his spinal fusion, it was the perfect solution._ _

__Walsh looked like he was ready to chew nails. Or he'd already swallowed them._ _

__"The 4 in the corner, clean," Finch announced calmly, a flick of the tip of his stick toward the far left end of the pool table designating the chosen pocket._ _

__Like everyone else, John scanned the table. The solid purple ball Finch had 'called' as his first target was tucked in a few inches behind the red and white striped 11 ball. From where Reese was standing, it didn't look like a simple shot. There were certainly other balls in more likely positions to choose from._ _

__Curious, he watched as Harold leaned forward, left hand resting on the table's surface with the index finger of that hand curled to form a tunnel for the narrower end of the cue stick to slide through, the fingers of his right hand lightly gripping the shaft's heavier lower half. As he drew the stick back, tip retreating several inches from its position behind the cue ball, there was no indication his fused spine was causing him any discomfort. Indeed, his stroke was smooth and precise, the speed of the cue ball surprising as it spun on its trajectory across the table like a fletched arrow flying toward a bulls-eye._ _

__The cue ball tapped a cushion and immediately rebounded at an oblique angle, barely losing momentum as it sped toward its target. It struck the 4 ball with a satisfying 'smack'. The cue ball stopped with a faint backward roll while the purple ball spun straight into the center of the pocket Finch had indicated. There was absolute silence from the onlookers, broken only by the soft thud of impact as the ball fell and then rolled through the gutter of the ball return._ _

__John risked a glance at Jeremy, whose stunned expression was slowly shifting to one of fragile hope._ _

__Walsh was an interesting shade of beet red._ _

__Finch seemed oblivious, his gaze locked on the table as he moved around it for his next shot. The side of the table he chose put Walsh and most of his men at Harold's back. Once again he leaned forward, left hip pressed against the rail and settled his stick into place. His eyes lifted, meeting John's for a split second._ _

__Pure mischief glinted in those pale blue eyes._ _

__And John got it._ _

__Harold had 'played' the situation brilliantly. Even Reese had forgotten that the 'nerdy' professor with a 'handicap' that required assistance to walk was a brilliant mathematician and an accomplished engineer. As Harold had reminded him, pool was ALL about math and physics--child's play for Finch, who apparently had more than average skills to back up the mental challenge._ _

__John kept a wary eye on Walsh and his men, but let tense muscles relax and settled back to enjoy the show._ _

__"7 in the side pocket, one cushion," Harold said quietly, refocusing his attention on the game._ _

__He proceeded to run the table, sinking each solid colored ball, calling shot after shot calmly, only pausing between every other pocketed ball to re-chalk the tip of his cue._ _

__Within minutes, just the striped balls and the black 8 ball were left. Once he sunk the 8, he would win the game. The shot Finch had was a simple one, the 8 ball resting only a few inches from a corner pocket, the cue ball directly in line with it._ _

__"'Call and Bank-the-8," Walsh suddenly demanded as Finch prepared his final shot._ _

__Harold stilled. At Reese's side, Jeremy muttered a curse. John glanced at the younger man questioningly._ _

__"He's got to bank it first, bounce it off a cushion," Tobin muttered in explanation. "From that angle..." He shook his head. "It's almost a guaranteed scratch."_ _

__Harold seemed unconcerned. He moved around the table, changing positions, lined up to shoot the cue ball _away_ from the 8, a tap on the pocket almost under his elbow indicating his choice for the black ball's final destination._ _

__Jeremy let out a whispered, "Oh my god--" just as Finch stroked smoothly and sent the cue ball flying at a cushion. It rebounded at an angle John hadn't expected and barreled back to strike the 8. The black ball zinged off at another odd angle, banking off not one cushion, but three before it dropped into the designated pocket with a thump._ _

__All hell broke loose, Walsh's men crowding toward the table, half yelling at the top of their lungs, the other half reaching for weapons. John blurred into motion, jerking Harold back out of the fray with one hand while reaching for his Sig with the other._ _

__With Finch safely behind him, he plucked a cue stick from the rack on the wall with his free hand, flipping it and shoving the heavier end into the stomach of the closest armed thug, who immediately doubled over. Reese lifted a knee catching the man under the chin, and a round from his Sig kneecapped another._ _

__John was already swinging the cue like a cudgel at the legs of a third man before the first two hit the floor. The cheap stick snapped, but the man tumbled sideways, cracking his head on the edge of the pool table. Out of the corner of his eye, Reese saw Jeremy smash a bottle over the head of an attacker six inches taller and at least 100 pounds heavier, dropping the man at Harold's feet._ _

__Two more of Walsh's men dove toward John, but his intended target was within reach. Two long steps and he grabbed Walsh, who stood frozen in the same spot he had occupied when Finch sunk his last shot, flushed with disbelief. Reese jabbed the broken end of the cue against the Irishman's throat._ _

__"You can live with a bruised ego, but not with a hole in your carotid," he snarled. "Call them off." When Walsh didn't respond immediately, John jabbed the remnant of the cue upward hard enough to break the skin. "Now!"_ _

__"Fine," Walsh hissed. "Enough!"_ _

__His bellow stopped his men in their tracks--all except for one, who was was still in motion, weapon rising and pointed at the source of his boss' embarrassment._ _

__Finch._ _

__Reese registered the threat in a heartbeat, but he was too far away to stop it._ _

__In a move that his size and bulk belied, Walsh pulled free of John's hold and spun toward his man, the cue stick he'd used only once in the match smashing downward. A resounding crack and screech of pain, and the thug staggered backward, wrist broken, the pistol skittering harmlessly across the floor._ _

__"I said ENOUGH!"_ _

__Reese flashed a glance at Harold to make sure his partner was all right, and received a sharp nod. He turned his attention back to Walsh, whose men were gathering behind him, those who had escaped injury tugging their cohorts off the floor. John eased backward, broken cue stick clutched one hand, his Sig in the other, until he stood with Finch and Jeremy at his back, the pool table between the two opposing sides._ _

__Walsh planted his fists on the tabled and glowered at them. "You brought in a lock artist, masquerading as a 'fish'," he snarled at Tobin._ _

__Finch started to take a step forward, but Jeremy beat him to it, stalking up to the table and mirroring the Irishman's stance. "I would have beat you fair and square if your man hadn't taken me out of the game."_ _

__John felt Harold's hand brush his arm, but his was focus was on Walsh. The big man held his position for a few more seconds, then slowly straightened._ _

__"Aye, perhaps." His voice rumbled like rocks churning in a grinder. Reese tensed as Walsh reached into the inner pocket of his suit coat and withdrew a folded sheet of paper and a pen. He flattened the paper on the bed of the table and with a flourish, scrawled his name on it. He slid the sheet across to Tobin. "We're done. Debt's cleared."_ _

__The young man's hands trembled as he picked it up. He scanned the sheet, then nodded._ _

__Walsh's glare flicked to John before settling on Finch. Reese's fingers tightened on the grip of his pistol._ _

__"I've not seen a game like that in a long time." Walsh's eyes narrowed. "Near forty years ago it was. A pub in Cambridge. Young college kid."_ _

__At John's side, Harold remained silent._ _

__"I was a fool that day. I bet against him. Lost a small fortune. Seems I've lost another." He snapped his fingers and one of his men handed him his pool cue. "Should our paths cross again--"_ _

__"Unlikely," Finch replied. "Unless you choose to reconsider your decision in regards to Mr. Tobin's debt."_ _

__Walsh's gaze flicked to Reese, his fingers tentatively probing the jagged cut on his throat. "I may be a great many things, Professor. Few of them good. But I'm a man of my word when it comes to this." He patted the pool table's rail. "The deal's done." He turned and took a step, then twisted back toward them. "Well played."_ _

__Harold tipped his head in silent acknowledgement._ _

__************_ _

__"That was quite a show you put on in there," Reese noted as he escorted Harold to his car._ _

__"I haven't lived a completely sheltered life, Mr. Reese. While I'm loath to admit it, my descent into deviant behavior began long before our paths crossed."_ _

__John leaned against the side of Harold's sedan. "I never would have pegged you for a pool shark, Finch."_ _

__Harold placed his cane in the footwell of the passenger seat. "When one is a poor college student, one learns to take advantage of one's natural talents. And despite Nathan's silver tongue, which he used to great success in eliciting funding when we began our partnership, our start-up budget for R &D was woefully inadequate." He shrugged. "One does what one must to make ends meet."_ _

__John laughed softly as Harold slid behind the wheel. Reese closed the car door and leaned down, propping his forearms along the ledge of the window as Finch powered it down._ _

__"You seemed quite...enamored of the game, Mr. Reese. Would you be interested in a private lesson?"_ _

__John warmed at the seductive playfulness in his partner's tone. "I'm sure a few...pointers in ball handling would come in handy somewhere along the line."_ _

__Harold shot him a stern, disapproving glare, but the twitch of his lips was a dead giveaway that he appreciated the double entendre. He reached into his inner suit coat pocket and withdrew a small notebook._ _

__"If you're not too tired after seeing Mr. Tobin safely home, this establishment might suit our purposes."_ _

__He passed a sheet with a single address jotted on it into John's hands._ _

__Reese tucked it in his pocket. "I'll see you soon."_ _

__With a nod, Harold drove off. Reese strode quickly back to the bar. The faster he got Jeremy settled and ruled out any change of intent from Walsh and his cohorts, the sooner he could get on to other more enjoyable pursuits._ _

__'Lessons' had never sounded so enticing._ _


	2. Chapter 2

**********

Two and a half hours later, John pulled up across from an older, poshly elegant hotel. It was the kind of place he and Harold had often met pre-Samaritan, but seemed an unusual choice for budget-strapped Professor Whistler. As he checked the address again, his phone vibrated with an incoming text from Finch.

CAMERAS ARE DOWN. ROOM 314

He was definitely in the right place. John slid out of the car, locked it and moments later was striding through the well-appointed lobby. A short elevator ride and he was standing outside the designated door. Just as he raised his hand to knock, he heard a soft buzz from the electronic lock. With an amused shake of his head at his partner's perfect timing, he let himself inside. 

It was a small suite illuminated by soft lighting. Finch sat a modest antique-looking desk, dressed in the same suit he'd been wearing earlier, his laptop open in front of him, just beyond a seating area of comfortable looking chairs and a plush sofa. There was no sign of a pool table, but there _was_ a luxurious king-sized bed. A room service trolley piled with covered dishes waited near a table already dressed with linens, plates and silverware. Two high-ball glasses filled with a smoky amber liquid rested on a low coffee table. The level of one of the glasses was lower than the other. 

"A little pricey for Professor Whistler," John observed, slipping out of his long black coat and tossing it over the back of a chair. 

Harold's fingers flew across the keyboard a final time--most likely reactivating the hotel's cameras--then he closed the laptop. He rose to his feet and crossed toward John, retrieving the untouched beverage from the coffee table on his way. 

"One of Whistler's side projects produced a rather significant windfall," Harold replied obliquely, a glimmer of the same mischief John had seen earlier in the night lighting his eyes as he offered the drink. 

Reese took a small sip, and then a longer one, the top-shelf whiskey producing a slow burn as it slid down his throat; a pleasant companion to the heat beginning to pool in his groin.

"You laid a side bet on the game."

Finch offered a one shoulder shrug. "We do have operating expenses, Mr. Reese, and an adjunct professor's stipend in no way covers them completely."

Harold took a step closer, wrapping his arms around John, palms coming to rest on Reese's back as he pulled him in and raised up a bit for a kiss. John met his offer eagerly, free hand flattened on his partner's lower back to press him closer. There was no desperation in their coming together, just a gentle caress of lips and whiskey-flavored tongues that spoke eloquently of welcome and pleasure; of touch that affirmed each other's existence and safety. 

The tip of John's tongue teased at his partners lips as they finally broke apart. A flash of memory--Harold in the gunsights of a half-dozen weapons when he'd entered the bar earlier that evening--made John tighten his grip. "You scared the shit out of me tonight," he rasped into his partner's ear. Harold leaned back a little to gaze up at him. "But you were impressive," Reese murmured with a slightly awed shake of the head. 

"One does what one must," Harold answered calmly, echoing his comment of earlier, completely unrepentant.

"A head's up next time." It was both a plea, and an order. 

Harold studied him intently for a moment, then acquiesced with a nod. His hands slid down John's back, traversed his waist and came to rest on his lapels. "I thought we might begin with a vocabulary lesson," he murmured. 

The corner of John's mouth twitched. "Vocabulary."

"Hmmm, yes." Harold's fingers smoothed the fabric of John's suit coat jacket. "It's always important to have an in-depth understanding of the proper terminology in the learning process. In billiards, there are of course game-specific terms, but also some common nomenclature that could be easily misunderstood unless one has a firm grasp of the distinctions."

John's cock throbbed. Oh, he was in for long night. "A firm grasp," he murmured, sliding his hand down to Harold's ass and giving it a squeeze. 

"Butt," Harold responded, eyes shining. "With two 't's'. The bottom portion of a pool cue which is gripped in the player's hand." His fingers teased at the neck opening of John's shirt, then moved up to trace the edge of the collar as he leaned in to press his groin against John's. "The collar protects the two ends of the cue stick where they join. That would be the 'butt collar' and 'shaft collar' respectively."

Harold's hands slid to the nape of John's neck and pulled him down into another kiss, a bare touch of the lips. "Kiss or Kiss shot. Self-explanatory?"

John nodded, not quite suppressing a shiver as Harold's fingers glided down his right arm and wrapped warmth around the fingers still holding the glass of whiskey. 

"Knuckles," sensitive fingertips ghosted over John' scarred joints, "are the two jutting curves of the noses of the cushions on either side of each pocket." Harold's other hand lifted to stroke John's face. "They form the jaw of the pocket."

Harold eased the glass out of his hand, moving a step away to set it on a table before returning to help him out of his black suit coat jacket. Linking his fingers in John's, he led him over to sit on the bed. "The bed is the flat surface of the pool table. The playing area."

John pressed his palms into the luxurious fabric of the duvet, feeling the faint 'give' of the mattress. "Nicely firm."

"The better tables feature a slate bed." Harold retrieved several plump pillows, placing them on either side of John. "And of course, cushion quality is critical."

"Of course."

Harold leaned in and undid the top button of John's shirt. "The aiming line," he slipped the next button free, "is the imaginary line drawn along the desired path an object ball is sent," he kept moving his way down until all of the buttons were undone, "usually to the center of the pocket." Harold's fingers brushed John's erection which was already bulging the front of his trousers.

"The pocket?"

"We'll cover that shortly," Harold replied, his fingers sliding down between John's thighs and pressing lightly into the inseam of the trousers. "The crotch is the corner formed by the rails on a carom billiards table. Carom is a somewhat different game than what was played earlier this evening." He slipped his hands free and slid them up John's chest, lightly raking his nails against bare skin, making John shudder. Harold clutched at the edges of his shirt and eyed him thoughtfully. "An important term, wouldn't you agree?"

John let out a slow breath, reining himself in and nodded. "Absolutely."

Harold hummed a pleased sound and deftly slid John's shirt off, placing it on the far corner of the bed. "The bottom of the table," he hesitated, one eyebrow lifted questioningly until Reese nodded that he more than happy to accept that position tonight, "is the end of the table from which the break shot is taken." He ran his hands down John's legs and knelt to remove his socks. "The British would call it the 'foot'."

John's toes curled as Harold ran one finger teasingly from the heel to the arch, before reaching forward to unbuckle John's belt. "There are numerous references to 'lines' in the game." He pulled the leather free with a slither and dropped it to the floor. "None actually drawn on the table, but one needs to be aware of their relative positions, as they affect where a ball can be placed in play. Balklines, for example." He fingered the button of John's trousers and looked up, his intent expression once again a request for permission. 

Reese bit back the teasing retort that had sprung to mind. Banter and innuendo came naturally to both of them, and fit perfectly with the playful lesson Finch was 'teaching' in seduction, but John had learned early in their relationship that Harold was a serious and thoughtful lover. Just like the invisible lines Harold had referred to in the game of pool, there were lines he wouldn't cross, liberties he wouldn't take in bed, without making certain his partner was in complete agreement. 

John placed his hands over his lover's. "I don't think we need to worry about those," he said quietly, guiding Finch's fingers in releasing the button and easing the zipper down. 

Harold flashed him a brilliant smile and gave him a gentle push to lay him back on the bed, encouraging him to raise his hips. In short order, John was completely naked. Literary foreplay was apparently a kink, because his cock was already full and leaking, curving upward toward his stomach.

Harold, who had yet to remove a stitch of clothing, stood staring down at him, expression pensive.

John cleared his throat. "Problem?"

"Just pondering the... efficacy of a visual demonstration." The almost detached tone of his response was laughable given where his gaze was fixed and the way he licked his lips.

John tucked a pillow behind his head. "Go for it."

Harold retreated across the room, returning with his cane cum pool cue. He removed the top knob and turned it so John could see the blue material inside. "A compound of silica and aluminum oxide, not chalk as one would use on a blackboard, which is calcium carbonate." He tipped the body of cane so the section hidden inside slid out. Nimble fingers slid the two pieces together locking them into place with a firm twist.

"The tool of the trade. A cue stick, or simply a 'cue'. Tapered, roughly 57 inches in length. Weight varies, but generally they run 450 to 600 grams. They can be crafted out of a variety of materials. Wood," he cast a glance at John's bobbing erection, "or wood covered or bonded with other materials such as graphite, carbon fiber, or fiberglass."

The specifics were lost on John. His attention was riveted on Harold's hands--the way his fingers alternately stroked and tapped the length of the shaft. 

"Chalk is placed on the cue's tip to increase friction and decrease slippage between the tip and cue ball," Harold rambled on. 

Reese broke out in a full body sweat as Finch chalked the tip with a tender caress, and groaned aloud as Harold pursed his lips to blow lightly over the end. 

Finch stared down at him over the rims of his glasses. "Is there some difficulty, Mr. Reese?" he asked blandly.

Ah, the man was beyond devious. Two could play that game, and from the growing bulge tenting Harold's tailored trousers, it was time for John to make a move. "The visual's...nice. But I think I'm more of a 'hand's on' student."

Finch blinked and his face flushed with color. "Learning styles do vary," he responded, voice faint and a little higher pitched than normal. He reached up and loosened his tie. "Perhaps it is an appropriate point in time to level the playing field."

Lacking only a hint of his normal efficiency--the buttons on his waistcoat causing a few moment's of delay due to trembling fingers, which Reese chose not to comment upon--Harold disrobed. John scooted up a little higher up toward the head of the bed and opened his legs to allow Harold room to kneel between them. 

Despite eyes darkened with desire and a cock already thick and drooling, Finch hesitated at the foot of the bed, a frown creasing his forehead. John recognized that look--Harold trying to gauge how awkward he would appear clambering onto the bed with his fused spine and stiff hip denying him any grace. Reese propped himself up on one elbow and extended his hand. 

Harold flushed a little darker, but he took the proffered assistance, only the faintest exhale of frustration escaping him as he settled into the space John had created. He planted his hands on each side of John's waist and leaned to place an almost chaste kiss on Reese's lips.

For as much of a turn-on as it had been to be naked with Finch fully dressed and in lecture mode, it was beyond temptation to have a wealth of pale skin within reach and not touch. John deepened the kiss and let his fingers roam--teasing swirls through silky curling chest hair, skimming down a bare back, stroking a throbbing cock--intent on purging any lingering insecurities from his partner's mind. 

Harold pulled away with a gasp, beads of perspiration dotting his temples and slicking the short hair at the sides of his head. He sent a glare John's way, but it wasn't convincing and Reese smirked right back at him. 

"Diamond," Finch murmured, shifting back a little, then leaning in to bury the tip of his tongue in the dip of John's belly button. Reese flinched at the unexpected move, then clutched desperately at the bed covers as Harold proceeded to lick a path to his right nipple, to the notch below his Adam's apple, angled down diagonally to his other nipple, coming to a halt at his belly button again. Finch raised his head, eyes glittering. "The traditional shape inlaid in the rails of the table to mark a reference point or target."

John grinned up at him. "Target. Now that's a word I recognize."

"Yes, of course you would," Harold muttered. "You'll be pleased to know the vernacular includes terms such as 'kill shot', 'double elimination', 'duck,' and 'cover.'" Harold smoothed his fingertips over one of John's scars, the bullet wound on his lower abdomen, a lingering reminder of his encounter with Mark Snow. "Although the true meaning of the latter two you seem to have trouble embracing."

John raised his hand and placed his palm against his partner's cheek. "I'll work on it."

"Please do." 

Harold inched backward and wrapped a hand around John's cock. "That brings us to 'shaft." His thumb pressed gently on the spongy head. "Head cushion." He pumped twice loosely. "Free stroking," he explained with an absolutely straight face. "Arc." His tongue traced a path from the base of John's slightly curved penis to the head, then swirled clockwise. 

Reese practically came off the bed. 'Torture," he gasped.

"Top spin," Harold corrected him. Then he swirled his tongue counter-clockwise. "Back spin."

Finch slid a hand under John's left thigh, encouraging him to lift it. Harold nipped lightly at the tender skin near the groin as Reese bent his leg. "Angle of incidence: the angle at which a ball approaches a cushion, as measured from the perpendicular. Not to be confused with the angle of reflection, which is the angle in which a ball rebounds from a cushion. Also measured on the perpendicular." 

"Finch--"

Harold ignored his gasped protest. "There are a significant number of terms relating to balls, as I'm sure you can appreciate," he murmured as his fingers cradled John's testicles, rolling them gently in the sac. At John's barely stifled groan, Harold glanced up, expression innocent. "You did express an interest in ball handing, did you not?"

Reese managed a choked, 'Yes."

"'Ball-in-hand' is fairly obvious." Finch tapped one testicle. "A 'ball-on' is any legally strike-able ball on the table. The cue ball," Harold tugged that testicle gently toward John's anus, "is considered an 'angled ball' when it is situated in the jaws of a pocket in such a way that the ball-on cannot be struck directly." 

Harold twirled a finger around the testicle before releasing it, causing John to squirm. "Action applies to lively results on the ball due to the application of spin." Harold leaned in and mouthed the fragile sac of the scrotum lightly before pulling back with a look of satisfaction. "'Big ones' is a term used primarily in 8-ball, designating the striped, higher numbered balls."

John could feel sweat breaking out all over his body again from Harold's teasing and although his brain was starting to liquify, he managed a snarky comment of his own. "Walsh would have had those. You had the --"

"I prefer solids and stripes, to the terms big and little," Harold snapped and sat back, pinning John with a look that sent a frisson of heat up his spine. "'Blue balls' typically refers to the actual color of the ball, but if you'd prefer to focus on the more base definition--"

John reared up and sealed his lips to Harold's in a searing kiss. When they parted for a much needed breath, he smoothed his thumbs over the fragile skin under his partner's eyes. 

"I like the color blue," he rasped, settling back onto the bed. 

Harold huffed a disgruntled sounding, "Hmmph," but his gaze was warm and loving, and the smile that tugged at his lips was sweet. He traced a feather-light trail along John's perineum, and pressed against the sphincter. Reese would have sworn all the blood in his body shot straight south. His cock spurted and he fought hard to keep his balls from drawing up and ending this abruptly.

"That brings us to the 'pocket'," Harold murmured after allowing John a few moments to regain control. "Used as a noun, it's one of the openings in the table. Used as a verb--" John's back arched in response as Harold pressed harder against the sensitive anal nerves, slipping a fingertip inside and holding it there. "It's interchangeable with the British 'pot', which means to sink a ball."

"I'll sink you, if you don't do something," Reese snarled.

"Patience is an integral part of the game, John," Harold admonished him, "if you're going to score and not scratch." 

The pressure at the entrance to his anus disappeared, to be replaced almost immediately with more, coated in a cool slickness. Wherever Harold had stashed the lube, Reese was grateful it was within easy reach. John consciously relaxed his muscles, easing the way for Harold's finger to slide further in. He focused on the gentle stretch and pull as his partner prepared him, the soothing litany of Harold's voice murmuring more terms and definitions while he worked John open with a second finger, and then a third, blurring to a wash of lyrical nonsense that he rode with bliss. 

He surfaced when Harold's condom covered engorged dick poked at his leg. "Bank shot," his partner grinned. "In which an object ball is driven into one or more rails prior to being pocketed." He shifted slightly and his cock tapped John's balls, eliciting a grunt. "That would be 'In the balls'."

John raised his head slightly, eying his partner. "Is that what Walsh's man meant when he called you a 'banger'?"

"Hardly. A 'banger' is a less than complimentary term for a beginning player," Harold answered with a snort of disdain. "A player who 'bangs' the balls, hitting them harder than necessary and with little attempt at control or position." He positioned the tip of his cock against John's entrance. "Not at all applicable to my level of play. I am always, 'in stroke'."

John laughed and let his head fall back even as he lifted both legs to give Finch better access. "Stroke away, then."

With the finesse with which he handled a pool cue, Harold slid smoothly into his body, pausing for a few seconds to pant lightly. His gaze locked with John's, eyes widening slightly as Reese bore down, encouraging him to move. Harold pulled partway out and then pushed forward with a groan, settling quickly into a pounding rhythm that John took with pleasure, carefully locking his heels behind his partner's back to draw him in closer.

For an immeasurable period of time Reese was lost in sensation. At some point in that gap of reality, Harold's increasingly breathless dialogue shifted from a vocabulary lesson to a physics treatise, terms like FORCE, and FRICTION explored in terse gravely bursts of exhaled air that finally pushed John over the edge.

He came back to awareness to find Harold draped over him, their softening cocks nestled side by side. Harold had recovered faster and had somehow dumped the condom, and managed to clean them up so they weren't cushioned in a flood of semen. John dropped a kiss on his lover's sweat-spiked hair and tugged until the duvet covered them.

"I like your teaching style, Finch," he rasped velvet soft.

"There will be a test, and I warn you I'm a hard grader, no matter how complimentary you are to the instructor," Harold replied, voice equally as gentle.

"A test?"

"A demonstration that you've adequately learned the concepts, of course."

It would be hours before either of them would be ready for a return match, but they had food holding warm a few feet away, probably a very generous shower in the en suite bathroom, and the room was theirs until morning. John grinned broadly. "The student becomes the teacher." 

Finch hummed low in his throat. "I'll be happy to critique your stroke, Mr. Reese." He snuggled in closer. "After a short nap."

***********************

Acknowledgements:

Characters and references from various POI episodes, no copyright infringement intended.

"There's a sucker born every minute." - often credited to P. T. Barnum, it is likely to have been spoken by David Hannum

"…he who seeks to deceive will always find someone who will allow himself to be deceived.”   
\-- Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince

A great deal of the inspiration and technical detail for this story came from this site:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_cue_sports_terms#  
No copyright infringement is intended in this work of fan fiction.

Inspiration also came from the 1961 movie 'Hustler, staring Paul Newman and Jackie Gleason. Check out this photo from the classic film: http://screenandstream.com/wp-content/uploads/hustler-gleason-newman.jpg

The billiards glasses Finch wears can be seen at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_cue_sports_terms#/media/File:Billiards_glasses.jpg

Kudos to TimelessDreamer2 who promised to beat me with a stick if she didn't see several of the lines spawned during a chat used in this piece.


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